Chapter 15: A Farewell in a Dream

A Farewell in a Dream

Aqiang was the younger relative closest to our family.

His parents had died when he was small, and he was raised by his uncle. Still, apart from school, he was always finding his way to our house—during holidays, festivals, summer breaks, winter breaks, any excuse he could make. My mother loved him with a tenderness that was almost deeper than blood. The best dishes were saved for him first. When the weather changed, she had new clothes ready before he even thought to ask.

And Aqiang clung to her just as warmly.

“Auntie,” he would call, sweet as anything, following her around the house. He was always the first to grab a broom, carry a bucket, lift a basket, or help with whatever needed doing. In many ways, he was more thoughtful than I was.

That winter, Aqiang had just turned twenty. He had started riding with his uncle on long-haul freight routes, carrying goods back and forth between the north and the south. A few days before one trip, he came to our house for dinner. With his bowl in his hands and his cheeks full of red-braised pork, he grinned at my mother and said, “Auntie, when I come back this time, I’ll bring you oranges from the south. They’re incredibly sweet.”

My mother laughed and gave him a light tap on the back of the head.

“Be careful on the road. Do you have enough money? If not, Auntie will give you some.”

He waved his hand at once.

“I have enough, really. Uncle prepared everything. Don’t worry about me.”

None of us knew then that it would be the last proper conversation we ever had with him.

On the seventh night after he left, the telephone rang in our house after midnight.

The sound tore through the silence. My father shot up from bed and answered it. On the other end was one of his uncle’s coworkers, his voice already ragged with tears.

“Brother, something’s happened. Aqiang and his uncle were in an accident on the highway. The truck rear-ended another vehicle. They’re in the hospital now, being rescued. They need money for surgery. You have to find a way.”

My father’s face went white.

As soon as he hung up, he began pulling open drawers and rummaging through cabinets, gathering whatever cash and bankbooks he could find. My mother had woken too. She helped him search while wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

“How could this happen?” she kept murmuring. “He was perfectly fine when he left…”

Before dawn had fully broken, my father tucked the money close to his body and caught the earliest coach to the hospital in the neighboring province. Before leaving, he told my mother, “Don’t worry. I’ll call you when I get there. Take care of things at home.”

My mother spent the entire day as if her soul had come loose.

She sat on the sofa staring at the telephone. The sewing in her hands slipped to the floor again and again. I tried to persuade her to lie down for a while, but she only shook her head.

“I’ll wait here,” she said. “If your father calls, I can answer right away.”

At dinner, she barely ate. After two mouthfuls of rice, she set down her chopsticks and stared toward the door, as though someone might walk in at any moment.

That night, she lay in bed turning from side to side, unable to sleep. Her mind was full of Aqiang as a child: the timid little boy he had been the first time he came to our house, the way his cheeks puffed out whenever he ate red-braised pork, the thin, sweating figure carrying water for her as if it were the most important job in the world.

Thinking of him, she drifted at last into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

She did not know how much time had passed when she felt the bedroom door open softly.

A familiar boyish presence seemed to come in with the night air.

She opened her eyes and saw Aqiang standing beside the bed.

He was wearing his favorite blue jacket. There was a faint smile on his face, the same as always, except that his complexion looked strangely pale.

“Auntie,” he said, his voice still so warm, still carrying that soft, boyish sweetness. “I’m back.”

Joy rose in my mother all at once. She sat up and reached for his hand.

“Aqiang, you’re all right. That’s all that matters. What about your uncle? Your uncle has gone to bring you the money. He may not have arrived yet…”

But Aqiang stepped back.

He shook his head. His eyes were full of reluctance.

“Auntie, I’m leaving,” he said. “I couldn’t finish this road.”

My mother’s heart dropped. A dark premonition rose inside her.

“What are you saying? What do you mean, leaving? Are you badly hurt? Don’t be afraid. Auntie will come see you right now.”

“Auntie, don’t be sad.”

His voice was very light, so light it seemed a breath of wind might carry it away.

“I only came back to say goodbye. Take care of yourself. Don’t grieve too much for me, and don’t let Uncle exhaust himself either. I’m all right over there. I just miss the red-braised pork you make.”

When he finished, he bowed deeply to my mother.

Then he turned and walked toward the door.

My mother tried to call out to him, but no sound came from her throat. She could only watch as his figure disappeared through the doorway. The bedroom door closed softly behind him, as if he had never been there at all.

My mother woke with a start.

Her pillow was already wet with tears.

In her heart, she understood exactly what Aqiang had meant when he said he was leaving.

She sat in bed, clutching the quilt, crying silently until the sky outside began to pale. Then the telephone rang again.

It was my father.

His voice was so hoarse it hardly sounded like his own. Beneath it, he was struggling to hold back his sobs.

“Aqiang…” he said. “Aqiang is gone. They couldn’t save him. The doctor just told us.”

My mother held the receiver in her hand. Strangely, she was calm. Only her tears kept falling.

“I know,” she said.

“You know?” My father fell still on the other end.

“Aqiang came back last night,” my mother said, her voice breaking. “He came to say goodbye. He told me he was leaving. He told me to take care of myself and not be too sad. He said… he said he missed my red-braised pork.”

My father said nothing.

A long time passed before a muffled sob came through the receiver.

Later, he told us that when the accident happened, Aqiang had used his own body to shield his uncle. His uncle was badly injured, but he survived. Aqiang, however, had already stopped breathing at the scene. In his hand, he was still clutching half of an unfinished biscuit—the kind my mother had tucked into his bag before he left.

Aqiang’s funeral was simple.

My mother made his favorite red-braised pork with her own hands and placed it before his memorial tablet.

She said Aqiang had always been a filial child. Even after leaving, he still remembered home. He had come back to say goodbye so she would not keep waiting and worrying.

Now, every year at Qingming, we visit his grave.

My mother always brings a bowl of red-braised pork and sets it down before him. Then she talks to him for a long while, softly and endlessly, as though he were only sitting just beyond her reach.

“Aqiang, Auntie has come to see you again. Everyone at home is doing well. You must be well over there too. Don’t keep worrying about us…”

I have always felt that Aqiang never truly left.

He simply found another way to stay near us.

That dream in the deep of night was the last tenderness he left behind, and the warmest proof of what family can mean. Even when life and death stand between us, longing and love may still cross mountains and seas, finding their way to the deepest place in the heart.